


in one car

by softlyblue



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Curtain Fic, Fluff, M/M, POV Third Person, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), how crowley & aziraphale look to the outside world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyblue/pseuds/softlyblue
Summary: Aleia just wants to sell the cottage next to the beach that has plagued her estate agency for the last few years. If she can shift it onto this old gay couple, all the better.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 202





	in one car

**Author's Note:**

> this was just a little doodle bc i love the scenario of the boys being gross in front of a hapless estate agent. i hope u enjoy!
> 
> (also not that it matters but in my head these pair are book omens. i just feel more comfy writing for that dynamic)

Aleia has been trying to shift this house for several years now, but it just refuses to sell. On the face of things it’s a lovely property; on a little rise only five minutes from a rocky beach, with a little oil burner in the kitchen, and a charming brick facade, and a garden overgrown in a pretty tumbledown sort of way. It’s a fixer-upper, definitely, but it isn’t a lost cause. 

But for some reason, the house just refuses to let itself be sold. She’s shown young couples around it - she’s shown small families around it - she’s shown widowers, widows, old couples, a writing group looking for a retreat, and none of them have been thrilled with it. Aleia just doesn’t get it. 

When she pulls up outside the cottage on this rainy morning in March, she isn’t too excited, and her hopes definitely aren’t high. The potential buyers are already there, in a vintage black car - Aleia doesn’t know anything about cars, but it looks pretty old, and pretty expensive, and it even has a vintage decal in the back window. She can see two people in the front, two men, and nobody in the back. Another couple? A pair of creatives looking for inspiration? 

She looks herself over in the mirror over the wheel before she gets out. No cabbage in her teeth, no lipstick on her nose. Great. Good to go. 

“Hi,” she advances, hand outstretched, as the two men get out of their car and doors slam. “My name’s Aleia, I’ll be showing you around the place today.”

“Call me - ah, Aziraphale,” says the shorter of the two men, his grip firm and friendly. Huh. He doesn’t  _ look  _ foreign, but then who is Aleia to judge?  _ Aziraphale.  _

“Anthony,” says the other man, reaching around his friend to shake her hand. His glasses are tinted, and he has an odd habit of ducking his head as he speaks, hanging behind Aziraphale. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Okay!” Aleia is chipper when she does viewings. She wonders, often, if the people she shows around houses think about her after they move in or move out or move somewhere else; she wonders if she influences their decision at all. Mostly she feels quite useless, like a piece of furniture you can’t quite seem to shift. “Shall we go? The cottage hasn’t been occupied since 2003, but don’t let that deter you. It’s compact, cosy, which doesn’t suit our larger families, but for a - um, a pair, it’ll be more than fitting.” 

Anthony mutters something she doesn’t quite catch, but she  _ does  _ see Aziraphale elbow him. “That sounds very pleasant,” he says, smiling. “Lead the way.”

They walk like a little line of ducks. Aleia, shaking the keys, and then Aziraphale marching like a little pompous bird, and Anthony skulking behind.  _ What an odd pair,  _ she thinks, and then it’s back to viewing mode and she wipes all judgement from her mind. 

“A lovely garden, dear, don’t you think?” Aziraphale murmurs when Aleia is fumbling with the front door. 

“I suppose,” Anthony says. There’s the sound of rustling grass, and when Aleia glances over her shoulder she sees the longer man kneeling amongst the nettles and dandelions and wild roses, his long fingers stroking over a silky petal. “I wonder would any of mine fight with this lot.”

“Do you own pets?”Aleia asks curiously, standing inside the open door. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says, when it becomes apparent Anthony won’t reply. “He’s just very particular about his plants, you see. Worries about them.” 

“Ah, of course,” Aleia says, as though that’s a completely normal thing to do. “Of course. Of course. Do you - um, would you like to come in?”

“Come on, love,” Aziraphale tugs on Anthony’s shoulder until he stands up, and then he smiles at Aleia. “Go ahead, we’re right behind you.” 

The cottage  _ is  _ cosy, that’s the thing. Aleia lives in a flat in Brighton with a few friends from college, and so the cottage is quite a bit out of her price range, but it’s the sort of place she can imagine settling down with a partner and raising dogs with, or something. The range is tucked into a brick inset in the wall, a pretty cream aga with two hobs folded down and a little warming oven, and there’s a low, scarred wooden table in the middle of the flagstone floor. The windows above the sink are light and airy, framed by frilly old-lady curtains, with a wide sill to perch flowers in, and a view of the rolling English Channel. 

Aleia lets the two men wander around - Anthony heads straight for the view and tips his sunglasses up, although he’s facing away enough from her that she still can’t see the colour of his eyes. Aziraphale totters around, small hands stroking the back of the couch, the surface of the table, the brick wall, the ceramic hob of the range. “This is quite big, dear,” he says, presumably to Anthony.

Anthony hums in reply. He looks almost physically attached to the window, staring out at the sea, and Aleia wonders what he’s thinking about. 

“This is lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs, to himself or to Anthony Aleia can’t quite tell. 

Anthony looks around. “I - yes. Very.”

“Tell me, dear,” Aziraphale turns to Aleia, and she wants almost to reel in the face of his unexpected beam, “A little more about the place, if you would?”

As Aleia rattles off numbers and dates and electricity and gas, she keeps half an eye on Anthony by the window, looking at the sea, and for the first time she thinks the cottage might have a chance at shifting hands. 

***

“Where are your  _ bags,  _ Crowley!”

Crowley shrugs, pointy shoulders in a black designer blazer, pointy hands in pockets. “I don’t have any, obviously. Plants are going by courier.” 

Aziraphale tuts, surrounded by boxes and boxes and boxes packed neatly together and placed on the side of the road, sealed with shiny brown parcel tape and all labelled in his pretty archivist handwriting. The bookshop is closed and locked up, but not sold; both of them have been alive for too long to burn bridges where London is concerned. Crowley’s flat has been treated similarly. “Where’s that nice sculpture, then?”

“The flat,” Crowley says, giving him an odd look. “Obviously. Listen, angel - are you coming or not?”

Aziraphale huffs, and together they pop the boot of the Bentley open to shuffle boxes in - with a quick curse, there’s suddenly a lot more space in there, and Aziraphale can slide all of his stuff in without any bother. Even though Crowley’s parked on the road, the steady stream of traffic doesn’t seem to notice or care, a rare event in the busy streets of SoHo. (But not, unsurprisingly, a rare event in the lifetime of Crowley’s car.)

“I thought you would have more  _ stuff,  _ is all,” Aziraphale says, nettled by this in a way he can’t put words to. “What are we going to fill the cottage with?”

Crowley, doing a steady 120 in the overtaking lane of the A23, takes both hands off the wheel to wave them in the air. “I don’t know,  _ your  _ stuff! You know I don’t have much clut. Most of my important stuff will stay in London.”

“But you won’t be with it,” Aziraphale says. The accusation of having  _ clut  _ doesn’t bother him; that’s practically his primary function, and he isn’t happy unless he’s got stacks of something balanced and wobbly to putter around making tea in the middle of the night. 

“If I want it I’ll just go and get it,” Crowley says, in a tone of voice that sounds as though  _ Aziraphale  _ is the odd one here. “I have everything I could possibly want in the short-term either in this car or in the cottage already.”

Silence fills the car. Well - not  _ silence,  _ because Brian May’s guitar solo in  _ Seven Seas of Rhye  _ is quite loud, but silence as in the absence of talk. Aziraphale basks in the warm glow of a compliment delivered so frankly, but then, that  _ is  _ just how Crowley carries himself. He will be rude, undeniably and stupidly so, for centuries on end if the whim takes him, and then he will say something so matter-of-factly affectionate that Aziraphale can’t even react to it. Isn’t sure if he wants to. (That would break the beauty of simplicity, would it not?)

Crowley clucks his tongue as a French heavy-freight lorry overtakes him. “He’s going seventy. He should  _ not  _ be in the fast lane.”

They make the rest of the journey at breakneck speed, and only get lost once or twice. (Aziraphale brings out his trusty OS map from the 1970s and tries not to look too smug as Crowley’s fancy GPS system fails, losing signal down a little country road after they have to stop to let a sheep cross.) (But the journey is fine.) (Everything is fine, now.)

***

“Here you are,” the lovely estate agent beams, handing Aziraphale a set of old keys on a red keychain. “Do you need me to go through any of the specs again? Just to save you a call in a few days. Heating or anything?”

“No, I think we’re fine,” Aziraphale smiles kindly back, aware of Crowley hovering by the door like an anxious puppy. “But-” and the demon really  _ will  _ be miffed - “Would you like to come in for a cuppa? Or a biscuit, if we can’t find the kettle in time? You’ve been dreadfully patient with us - I think we’d be living in a Welsh motorhome by now if you hadn’t given us a hand.”

_ “Angel,”  _ Crowley whispers, so only Aziraphale can hear,  _ “Why?”  _

But Aleia seems charmed. “That would be very kind of you,” she says, a hand cupping her elbow shyly. “But I couldn’t intrude-”

“I would consider myself very rude if you didn’t get at least a bun,” Aziraphale says firmly, and turns to walk up the little stone garden path. “Come on, Crowley dear. Let me unlock the door.”

Crowley seethes as only a demon can, but turns it into rather a dashing smile when Aleia looks at him. “This one,” he says, jerking a thumb at Aziraphale’s back in the manner of a put-upon housewife complaining to her companions, “He would rather die than see anyone in England without a cup of tea anytime, any place.”

Aleia laughs. “It’s very nice. Very - oh, I don’t know. Gentlemanly.”

“Well, he is that,” Crowley says, unaware of how soft his voice turns; Aziraphale is standing in the doorway, still smiling, waiting for the demon and the estate agent together to make it up the path. 

The cottage is much the same as it was when they first saw it, tucked-together and neat and jumbled with a lot of old-lady things, the smell of must and mothballs and the English Channel through the far window, beautiful in how big and old and indifferent it is. Crowley makes a beeline for the view, and Aziraphale can’t help how fondly he smiles, and Aleia - 

She’s delighted. Never before has making a sale made her this happy. 

The kettle is dug out of Crowley’s boot, and Aziraphale fills the air with pleasant chatter. 

Crowley rests his chin on his hand, and looks out on the sea. It looks like it’s going to be a good day. 

Everything important to him is all in one place, and that’s what matters - nothing more, and nothing less. 

**Author's Note:**

> my twt is sweetlyblue and my tumblr is softlyblues x


End file.
